


A Poet and a One-Man Band

by lucyquinnfabray



Category: Glee
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-29
Updated: 2012-11-29
Packaged: 2017-11-19 19:53:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/577034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucyquinnfabray/pseuds/lucyquinnfabray
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's been waiting silently for her. Now that they're back in Lima, he won't be so silent anymore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Poet and a One-Man Band

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! So you probably already know who I am from my Tumblr postings. But I figured I'd share the love! This happens to be my 100th Quick standalone piece. Funny how it's my first one, here. Hope you enjoy!

They part ways in the middle of summer. He’s told her about getting just enough money for a one-way ticket to LA. She smiles because that’s what you’re supposed to do when the person you love is happy. He’s happy. So she’s happy for him.

Though she has to bite her tongue from telling him to go with her to New Haven. The hopeless romantic in her had everything planned out for them. A shared apartment, he’d have a job on the side playing music around the college bars, working for a studio while she went to her classes.

So she spends the rest of her summer writing. She’s always read, always engaged herself in books, but now she has a lot to say. Too much to say that she can’t confide in many people. Santana’s working through her own things. She’s happy for Mercedes, too, really, but she’ll have the luxury of the LA area near Puck. There’s no way she’s talking to him, either.

Last thing she wants is for him to give up his dream for her. She only wants him happy. She only wants him to make something for himself, just like he wanted. She knows he won’t have a problem with that. He’s Noah Puckerman. End of story.

She writes something each day. Stories of people like them. People who could have it all. People who could have more than they have. By the time summer draws close, she’s already gone through two, if not three notebooks filled of them. Filled of people like them.

He stops by the night before she’s scheduled to leave, slipping through her window with his guitar. Her mom’s off working a little bit later so as to spend the day with her tomorrow before she left. But he’s here. He’s always made sure she wasn’t alone.

“I wrote you something,” he tells her, propping himself up on the edge of her bed. She’s mesmerized as he sings and plays. She’s brought back to her days inside of that choir room where she’d feel like it was just him, and her and his guitar and no one else. 

She doesn’t realize she’s been crying the whole time until he reaches forward and wipes the tears from her cheeks with his thumb. Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out a small thumb drive. She’s surprised, but takes it anyway.

“For when you’re out there and you’re missing home,” he explains. He’s nervous enough that his hand shakes a bit as it rests on his guitar. “Mixtapes aren’t in anymore. So I had Artie help with the real technical stuff, like recording this song for you.”

He gets up then, heading to the window where he came. But she’s up, too. She reaches out for his hand. He places his guitar on the small place to sit by her window. She walks over to her desk, grabbing one of the journals she had littered with stories during the summer. She swaps it for the thumb drive.

“I know you’re not a big reader, but…” She hands the black journal to him before she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “It’s not a diary. I had a lot of free time. So I wrote. About us. About people like us.” 

He places the journal atop the guitar then. Walking over to her, he cups her face and kisses her. Their lips press hard against one another. Their cheeks are wet. Neither one knows who’s crying. They don’t care. 

He gives her one last present before he leaves in the morning: a promise that he’d be there at the train station with her when she’s about to leave. She nods as she watches him exit out the window, guitar and journal securely in his grasp.

She saves him for last once they’re at the railway station. Brittany first, then Mercedes, then Santana, then her mother. That’s the order. She promises them all to write or call or text or Skype. Then there’s him. The tears are starting up again as she looks at him. 

He’s wiping his eyes because it’s not manly to cry in public. It’s not crying. He’s just got shit in his eyes. But she is. She’s casting her eyes down to the ground because it’s easier than looking up at him. It’s easier to say goodbye and actually get on that train if she doesn’t have to see how much pain it’s causing him. It’s easier for him to say goodbye if he doesn’t see how hard it is for her to leave.

“Just promise you’ll call or write while you’re out there in LA,” she manages to say, choking up as she glances up at him. But he just leans down and kisses her again. His cheeks are just as wet as hers. 

Neither one of them say goodbye as she boards the train. She’s disappearing somewhere into one of the cars. He catches a glimpse of a crying blonde leaning against the window before he loses it and heads back to his truck. 

She starts a new journal the minute she gets there. This one’s about people like them. People like them making a home for themselves. She’s not too sure where just yet. But they’re together. That’s all that matters to them. The thumb drive just so happens to be her background music.

When he’s not cleaning pools, he spends his time playing music. Just him and his guitar, like it has been for almost all his life. Just him and his guitar and her is his goal but her dream’s different than his. Her dream’s somewhere in New Haven. His dream’s her. 

He plays music on the streets when he feels down or just isn’t up for anything else. Sure, the change helps and the occasional gigs he snags at coffee shops or small bars helps too, but it’s all off. It’s all really, really off.

He’s read the book. He’s read about them and about people like them and it’s not them now. It’s what they could be now if they weren’t on opposite sides of the country. It’s what they could have been if everything that went wrong didn’t go wrong. It’s what they could have been if he didn’t say goodbye.

She’s got two journals filled by the time she heads home for Thanksgiving. He hadn’t called, she hadn’t written. The goodbye they forgot to say at the train station happened anyway due to the distance.

She’s back to the school one day. He’s back, too. They sing together. They sing with their friends. But it’s really just him, her, and his guitar. It’s always just been him, her and his guitar. That’s all they’ve ever really needed. That and the few great things that came out of it like a beautiful baby, beautiful music, and beautiful writing.

He’s climbing through her window their night after Breadstix, guitar in hand. But he places it by the window sill and kisses her then. He kisses her because it’s been months since he’s kissed her and he doesn’t want to waste any more time between them. 

She’s in his arms when they’re done. Their bodies are pressed together as close as they possibly can get. Her head rests on his chest. She’s comforted by the sound of his heartbeat, sounding in sync with hers. 

“Your hair’s longer,” he points out to her. His fingers are running through her hair. They’re in days of the past. Days that are gone and they can’t seem to get back no matter how hard they try.

“Your mohawk’s gone,” she counters. He looks older. For nineteen, he definitely looks the part, if not someone older. LA did something to him.

When morning comes, it’s a sweet relief for the both of them. They can sleep in and hold each other and not budge until Finn calls wondering if they’re going to make a stop at the school or plan on helping with sectionals like they promised.

Their last day together sneaks up on them. They’re in each others arms. Tonight it’s bittersweet. Tomorrow they’d say goodbye without words, return back to their lives in LA and New Haven.

“Oh,” he remembers. He reaches down to the ground and grabs his jeans, sifting through the pocket before pulling out a thumb drive. “For you,” he tells her. She grabs it from his hand and heads back over to her desk. She swaps it once again for another black journal.

“I wrote again,” she tells him. “About us. About people like us. What their lives would be like if they were together. There’s no concrete place. But they’re together.” She hands him the journal. He gives it back.

“Keep it. I don’t wanna read about it anymore. I wanna live it. I wanna be surprised when we do,” he smiles at her. Her cheeks are wet again. Not from an ending but a beginning. A very beautiful beginning.

She throws the journal off to the side. The black book filled with stories of people like them lands next to the guitar.

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and reviews are greatly appreciated!


End file.
